


Modern Partitions

by Aziord



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Prototype (Video Games)
Genre: Altair's Third Crusade Timeline, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Characters and additional tags to be added, M/M, Warning for immense buildup to the time travel itself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:36:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziord/pseuds/Aziord
Summary: "You know Arabic?"Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Yes and no. I can speak Arabic specific to the time around the third crusade."Frowning briefly, Mercer flicked his eyes to the man lying unconscious behind Desmond, and back to the assassin again. "So you're saying we're in the third crusade.""I'm going to go out on a limb here and say we most likely are."





	Modern Partitions

**Author's Note:**

> A thank you to Dadmondmiles on Tumblr for proofreading this.
> 
> This is born of my ridiculous need to create multiple fics in which I send characters back to Altair's time.
> 
> For additional info: Alex is not far in his own game timeline, only a few days or so since the release of the virus on Manhattan.

“I appreciate the concern,” Desmond began, hauling himself up onto the platform as concrete dug into the palms of his hands, “but I would really prefer to stay quiet so one of those _things_ doesn’t find me again.”

The earpiece was quiet for a moment before William Miles’ gruff voice filtered through. “The sooner you get that power source, the sooner you’re out of the Red Zone, Desmond. Focus on that instead of complaining.”

Desmond graciously chose to ignore Shaun’s laugh at his reprimand fizzling through the connection.

Another deep breath exhaled and Desmond was pulling himself up the side of the crane Rebecca had graciously noted he was to jump off of. And hurdle right towards the infected streets of Manhattan below. Fantastic.

As high as he was, it was surprising the wind didn’t help drown the gutteral noises of infected creatures far below the building Desmond had been scaling for the past twenty-five minutes. Useful, seeing as he would be able to hear if another one attempted to climb said building after him again, but also unnerving as one would expect. He probably should give zombie movie protagonists more slack for being able to tolerate this kind of environment. Even though, as Rebecca lovingly noted only hours ago, the infected technically weren’t _zombies_.

With another pull upwards, Desmond’s arms were starting to burn with the exertion of ascending the tower for almost half and hour now. No matter what positives the Bleeding Effect graced him with when it came to skills, it did nothing to have prepared his body to be fit enough as Ezio or Altaïr had once been. Scaling the tower had sweat making Desmond’s shirt stick uncomfortably to his back while Ezio probably wouldn’t have even felt more than a muscle strain at this.

Desmond grumbled low enough that his earpiece wouldn’t pick up on as he finally reached the flat surface of the tip of the crane, yanking himself to the metal platform with a grunt. Or at least, he _hoped_ his earpiece didn’t pick up on the noise.

“I’m on top of the crane now,” Desmond started, carefully balancing on the twisting metal as he neared the edge protruding away from the building. The wind was tugging incessantly at his jacket as he walked, prompting him to level his balance out lest he be unceremoniously pushed off and hurtled straight into the arms of the infected. If the fall didn’t kill him, that was. Who knows, maybe it wouldn’t — apparently the Precursor blood he had in him truly did give him better strength and durability than the average human. Which was a weird thought.

This time, it was Rebecca’s voice that crackled into life next to his ear. “Jump when you’re ready, but wait for my signal to open the ‘chute. Timing is really important here. Too soon or too late and you’ll miss the building.”

Easier said than done.

Desmond spared a glance below himself. Despite the darkness that had crept across Manhattan, the streets below maintained their eerie red glow that the zone gained its namesake from. He couldn’t see the vines of pink _something_ that spider-webbed across the bases of buildings from his height, nor could he see the tiny specks that were the infected prowling the streets below, but that certainly didn’t make Desmond feel any better about jumping off the crane.

Rather than wait for his father to bitch in his ear again, Desmond quickly stood to his full height, letting the wind knock him forward as he spread his arms. “I’m dropping.”

The metal of the crane rushed past Desmond’s eyes in an instant as his stomach dropped in time with his whole body falling. A Leap of Faith was no less exhilarating in real life than it was in the Animus — though this time, if he fucked up, there would be no digital redos.

A moment of wind rushing to truly blocking out the noises below as he dropped, enjoying the momentary quiet it allowed him to relish in. And then his earpiece crackled to life. “Now! Open your parachute now!”

Desmond yanked a hand behind himself at the command, ready to deploy the parachute. Only, his arm fumbled as he had the actual wind pushed from his lungs as something barreled into his side, swinging faster than Desmond could think to plastering itself to his back.

And really, Desmond wasn’t expecting that. If one of the Hunters had been crawling up the side of the tower the entire time, he would’ve seen it — and also he doubted those things had the coordination to leap at him while he was falling midair.

An arm — was that an arm? It felt like one. Was it an infected who grabbed him then? That made even _less_ sense than a Hunter scaling the tower. He really should’ve asked Rebecca to go more in detail about the Redlight virus — curled around his waist before whatever had decided to crash into him changed their position in the air, putting Desmond’s face parallel to the street below as they rushed to the side.

Oh, they were going to smash into the building opposite of the tower, weren’t they? The force of the other knocking into him would’ve sent them to the side, not downwards like he was falling before.

He was dead. So, so dead. No more Desmond Miles once he hit the hard plaster of the building opposite at a hurtling speed. Even though his legs would most definitely hit the building first, he’d probably drop like a dead fly to the street below immediately after. Hitting a window might be better, but knowing his luck, he’d end up with glass shoved completely through his chest.

“Desmond?”

His earpiece rang to life just as his own legs were kicked up by the other, bending his knees right as the loud reverb of the impact of something into the brick, concrete, _steel_ building he had guessed he was soon going to be a bloodstain on briefly deafened him. Desmond winced as the sound reached his ears, watching the crumble of pieces of the building fall to the street below as he waited for the rebound of the energy as they landed to hit him and second.

It didn’t come.

“What the fuck—” Desmond began, drawing in a ragged breath before he felt himself tugged slightly down by what he had now determined was _definitely_ an arm around his waist, almost as if—

“No, no! Don’t you dare—”

And then they were moving back in midair, Desmond squeezing his eyes shut for half a second before blinking them back open. The wind wasn’t so bad once he realized they were going _up_ and to the side, not straight down.

“Let me go!” Desmond’s left arm scrabbled at the leather-clad arm that currently trapped his right arm to his side and kept him from becoming an infected’s next snack on the street below.

Rather than be graced with an answer, and really, did Desmond expect one when the bastard had just _jumped_ off a wall, the arm around his waist released, and then he was free-falling. Again.

Instinctively, Desmond used his now-freed right arm to hurriedly pull at the parachute trigger before he effectively become paste, but before he could yank the string, he landed hard on his ass. On concrete.

“Desmond, are you there!”

Groaning in pain at the landing, Desmond quickly fell to his side, hissing under his breath. “Give me a minute, Rebecca! Rocky landing.”

He hardly paid mind to the tremor of the concrete below him as something also landed nearby. Instead, he tried to breathe in and out of his nose to will the pain away — he highly doubted he broke anything, the fall was only a short one, but _God_ if it didn’t hurt at the moment.

“First time I’ve ever met a person to scale a building like it was their own, personal jungle gym only to jump off of it. Most people just take the elevator if they’re trying to commit.”

Another harsh breath, and Desmond lifted his head, squinting at the mass of black nearby that he recognized vaguely as the shape of a person.

“I had a _parachute,_ ” Desmond hissed at the other, dropping his head as his vision swam, pain slowly ebbing away. “At least I’m not the one who thinks shoving people into other buildings midair is some kind of sport.”

The lack of response at his taunt had Desmond once again lifting his head, this time pushing himself off of his side as he sat up. The other was staring at Desmond with a flash of bewilderment crossing his features.

“Listen, thanks for help and all since you thought I was trying to kill myself or something, but—” Desmond paused, glancing at the large painted H that sat below him. Out of all the buildings, he had managed to land at the right office penthouse?

Well, that fixed one problem.

The earpiece crackled at Desmond’s pause, “Report, Desmond.”

Before Desmond could even begin to explain his predicament, the earpiece was unceremoniously ripped away from his head, thrown to who knew where, and a fist was laced into the front of his jacket as he was dragged across the ground.

Desmond grunted at the rough pull of concrete against legs, tearing at the fabric of his jeans before his torso was hoisted into the air, brought face to face with the other — who his brain dutifully noted was a hooded man.

His instinctive reaction the moment he was slowed in his drag forward was kick out his legs as he was pulled upwards, legs bent from being slightly taller than the other man. However, his legs were also grabbed by something Desmond did _not_ want to think about, because his memory connected the face in front of him with how he was just dragged halfway across the Helipad without the other man moving an inch.

“Are you part of Blackwatch?” the man — no, this was no man. _It,_  asked.

_“Dr. Alexander J. Mercer. According to our intel, he’s the one who created the mess in Manhattan. The military force there calls him Zeus as a codename,” Rebecca quoted, eyes darting across her computer screen. “Don’t even try to engage him. From what Blackwatch says, he can’t be killed by anything. Something about being the virus itself. Our source in Blackwatch doesn’t have all the details, so stay out of his way. Shouldn’t be hard for you, though. Manhattan’s a pretty big place.”_

_Desmond only tilted an eyebrow in response. An unkillable man — well, that wasn’t any weirder than finding out he was part Isu._

_“Don’t jinx it, ‘Becca.”_

Rebecca had definitely jinxed it.

Scowling, Desmond placed his own hand upon the one fisted in his jacket, tugging incessantly in an attempt to make the other let him go. “Do I look like Blackwatch to you?” Desmond hissed out, daring to stare straight back at the pale blue eyes that pierced through his own gaze.

He could trigger his hidden blade and stab the other, but from the information Rebecca had fed him, that would be useless. Maybe he could at least incapacitate the other for long enough?

“Listen, you at least dropped me on the right building. Let me go and I’ll be out of Manhattan before long. Guaranteed to never see me again,” Desmond continued, hoping to distract Mercer from his left arm angling itself right under the other man’s wrist. With luck, he would trigger his blade to hit the tendons in Mercer’s wrist, causing him to lose his hold. The extreme durability Rebecca had described was hopefully a rapid system of healing, not impenetrable skin.

Mercer only stared at Desmond after his statement, expression unreadable as his grip tightened on Desmond’s jacket. If Desmond had been shorter than the other, he was fairly sure he would’ve been hoisted off the ground right about now.

Readying himself at the lack of response, Desmond planted his feet more firmly on the ground, ready to trigger the blade, only to falter when Mercer spoke.

“I’m looking for something in this building.”

Desmond paused, flicking his gaze from his hidden blade and back to Mercer’s face in rapid succession. Was it a coincidence? Unlikely. Nothing was _ever_ a coincidence in Desmond’s life, for better or worse. A Templar then?

. . .No. Maybe Desmond’s track record lacked when it came to identifying templars (—blonde hair, a white shirt and brown jacket soaking in blood, the movement of his arm without his own accord—) but Rebecca would’ve noted if someone like Mercer had the potential to be working with the Templars. The Templars wanted order; unleashing a virus that had infected half of Manhattan in only a few short days and causing mass chaos? _That_ wasn’t order.

Mercer’s unsaid question of, _“And what are_ **_you_ ** _looking for?”_ rung between the two men, but Desmond knew he needed to answer sooner or later.

He desperately wished he could ask Rebecca, Bill, hell — even _Shaun_ , for what exactly he could reveal to... the supposed _thing_ in front of him. But, right, his earpiece was gone. Mercer probably had experience with Blacklight soldiers using earpieces to communicate. Explained the intense reaction, if he was right.

“I’m searching for a powersource,” Desmond bumbled out, hoping Mercer would accept the feeble explanation.

He didn’t.

Mercer released his hold, using enough force to push Desmond away that the assassin likely would’ve landed hard on his ass, _again_ , if it wasn’t for the grounded stance he had already positioned himself in. Instead, he swayed precariously backwards, having to take a step to avoid falling. Mercer only watched the spectacle hidden behind his own hood, expression jaded from Desmond’s prying eyes.

“I put enough force behind that shove that you should’ve gone skidding across the roof,” Mercer said, arms crossed as he appraised Desmond with a keen eye, glancing him up and down.

“Are you infected?” Mercer continued on, and Desmond felt the shiver of something crawling across his skin, as if he could sense the other was seeing him as something — else. Some sort of special vision like Desmond himself had?

Before Desmond could stop himself, he activated Eagle Vision, watching as Mercer was lit in a brilliant gold; no vibrant red, calming blue, or even an unassuming gray. The coloration was surprising, but it didn’t tell him if Mercer was truly a danger or not, just that he was _important._

Straightening himself from his stagnant position, Desmond blinked away Eagle Vision, searching for an answer to Mercer’s question. He couldn’t very well explain he had a high concentration of Isu blood — that’s an entire can of worms he doesn’t have time to go into when the Templars could appear any minute now.

However, Mercer once again kept talking, quiet enough this time that Desmond almost assumed he was mumbling to himself. “No, you’re not infected. Interesting.”

Desmond raised an eyebrow at that. The other could tell who was infected and who wasn’t? Explained the feeling he had when being watched, at least.

A tick went by in Desmond’s internal clock, and he knew he was wasting time while he was sure the rest of the assassins were scrambling around, trying to get in contact with him. He needed to find that powersource sooner rather than later, and his unexpected chat with Mercer was taking too long.

Stepping towards the single door that lead inside the high-rise office, Desmond spared a glance towards Mercer. He didn’t know how the other would react — Mercer was unpredictable.

“If the interrogation is over,” Desmond internally winced at his awful attempt at humor, “I’m on a time limit to get this powersource.”

Before Desmond could even attempt to take another step towards the doorway, Mercer was swift to reply, taking long strides to stand just in front of Desmond. “Fine, I am coming with you. We might be looking for the same thing.”

And really, Desmond doubted that. For as weird as it was that Mercer was, what — a virus in the shape of a human? A human who’s infected with an odd strain of the Redlight virus? — there was little chance they could truly be looking for the same thing.

Though, Desmond’s nonchalant ease of brushing aside this coincidence was likely going to come back and bite him in the ass. Probably.

Turning his back, shoulders tense in case Mercer tried to fling him off the side of the building this time, Desmond finally shrugged the parachute backpack off of him, no longer finding a use for it.

“I’ve explained what I’m looking for — what about you?” Desmond tossed the question over his shoulder, moving forward to wrench open the door of the office. He kept an ear open for the sound of Mercer’s steps following him. If Templars _had_ just arrived, sneaking past them would be incredibly difficult with the amount of noise the other made with simple steps. Then again, maybe Mercer might be courteous and take all the bullets for Desmond.

There was a pause of silence behind Desmond once the door slammed closed behind the two of them, and he had half the mind to think the other had stayed outside the door. But then—

“I’m not sure. I’ve been tracking Gentek records and their parent company, Abstergo, had labeled something in this building as an item of interest. I intend to find whatever it is. It might have something to do with me.”

Gentek, Abstergo, an item of interest: this time, Desmond did shoot a look of concern over his shoulder at Mercer. Mercer’s phrasing was off, as if he didn’t understand the current Manhattan situation was caused by _him_ , but Desmond chose not to dwell on it. His other words were more pressing.

“How long ago did you figure out this information?” He shot at the other, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the minimal light in the office, glancing around the room.

Desmond could feel Mercer’s eyes pin him into place, watching him like an cat trailing a mouse. Watching for a falter. So, Mercer seemed to have caught on that Desmond knew more than he was letting the other know. Desmond could only grimace at that.

“Less than twenty minutes ago. I spared some time watching you climb that crane.”

There — on the desk and illuminated a faint blue, sat the powersource Shaun had located. Only, within a glass box. Simple enough to break.

But twenty minutes was plenty of time for Abstergo to have already sent a force through Manhattan to get to the same office penthouse, that Desmond knew. Spinning on his heel, Desmond turned to regard Mercer and ask one final question, only to find the space previously occupied behind him empty.

“Mercer?” Desmond called out, glancing around the room once before quickly stepping over to the powersource. It didn’t bode well for him that the other had disappeared. Get in and out with the powersource — this mission was supposed to be simple.

Desmond swiftly brought his elbow down on the thin glass encasing the cube-esque object, the shatter ringing hollow around the room. A pat to brush off any excess shards from his jacket, and Desmond had the powersource in his hands, faint blue light illuminating his skin.

“That wasn’t so bad.”

Turning back around, powersource in hand, Desmond went to shift his gaze around the room once more, intending to search one last time for Mercer’s whereabouts. Instead, his gaze was stalled by the sight of a gun aimed with almost lazy ease aimed straight at his head.

“So, you must be Desmond. Not exactly what I expected. But I guess your kind doesn’t have many options these days.”

Desmond only blinked — Templar operatives didn’t speak to him often, not unless they were important. Though the man in front of him, dark blond hair and an angular face, didn’t ring any bells. A new agent, or someone he didn’t know? At least he knew Abstergo was here, now.

“Who are you?” Desmond was swift to question, squeezing the powersource in his hand with a tighter grip. He’s had worse odds with multiple guns pointed at his head. He could win this fight if he was careful.

“Ask your father.”

It wouldn’t be the first time William purposefully kept information from Desmond, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. However, something was telling Desmond that the other in front of him was someone he _should’ve_ been told about. He was no ordinary Abstergo agent, that was for sure.

Glancing between the gun trained upon his head and the other man’s own gaze, Desmond widened his stance with the barest of movements. If he could snap the gun out of the way, he could probably bash the Templar with the powersource and knock him out cold. The powersource itself was weighty and didn’t creak as if it was brittle in Desmond’s hand. It could probably take the brunt force trauma. Hopefully.

However, Desmond’s hopes were dashed, for better or worse, when a hand shot out of the darkness behind the Templar and an arm wrapped around the man’s neck, a choke-hold in perfect execution. The man struggled briefly, having enough mind to shove his own head back in an attempt to headbutt his assailant, but Desmond could tell the strikes only worsened the Templar’s condition, not whoever currently held him.

Taking the opportunity, Desmond shoved himself forward, striking down with a corner of the powersource upon the Templar’s temple as he turned to watch Desmond with wide-eyes, just as he had planned. The man instantly slumped in the chokehold, body going limp as a cut started to swell with blood from where the edge had sliced open the skin.

The body crumpled like a ragdoll the moment it was let go, curled on the floor in a disarray of limbs.

“You knew who I was.”

Glancing away from the knocked-out Templar, Desmond looked up only to come eye-to-eye with Mercer once again, face impassive as he stared at the powersource he held with an interest in his eyes Desmond couldn’t place. “What?”

Mercer brought his gaze back to Desmond’s face, rolling his eyes. “Back when I hid myself in the office. You called me Mercer despite that fact I never told you my name.”

Desmond had half the mind to book it out of the office already. With this Templar incapacitated, there was no doubt more would be swarming the building within minutes. He needed to cut this conversation short.

“Of course I do, haven’t you seen the news?” It’s not like Desmond actually watched it himself due to the amount of false info, but he wasn’t about to share the assassins had Blackwatch intel. He was taking a guess here. “How did you know to hide?”

Mercer gave an attempt at a shrug. “Saw his heat signature lurking in the hallway outside. Secrecy isn’t something I practice, but I’ve been shot enough times today.”

Infrared vision, extreme durability and strength, and some kind of infected-vision. Next thing Desmond knew, Mercer would be able to shapeshift.

Desmond was already mid-step to the door leading to the hallway before Mercer’s voice continued at the assassin’s silence.

“I realize you need that ‘powersource’, but that’s what the Abstergo files described. I need it as well.”

And really, what did Mercer need with a Precursor artifact? The dealings with the one Templar agent still sprawled across the floor proved that Mercer wasn’t working with the Templars (—though one Templar down truly didn't speak of much of an allegiance elsewhere—).

Desmond cast a glance over his shoulder at the other, eyebrows drawn low in confusion. “And why exactly do you need this?”

Mercer’s response was terse: “It might have something to do with me.”

The assassin almost laughed at Mercer’s response. So, Mercer found a strange object and thought it was connected in some way? He obviously didn’t know what the cube was. Thankfully Abstergo had enough sense to keep their online information to a minimum. “Not every strange object in Manhattan is somehow connected to you.”

Another flicker of his eyes to the doorway, and Desmond took another step. “You won’t get anything out of using the powersource,” he continued, motioning to the Templar slumped on the floor with his free hand. “I need to get out of here before more Abstergo agents show up. I’m sorry, but—”

“I’m coming with you, then. You can show me what it actually does.”

Desmond blinked, turning slightly in order to frown at the other. “No— no way. My associates aren’t going to like you.”

More like Shaun and Bill would both have an aneurysm the moment they caught sight of Mercer. Bringing the man who released the Redlight virus on Manhattan and was basically a bioweapon probably broke the third assassin tenet. Not that Desmond even cared about said tenets until this month, but still. Rebecca might be a little more amicable — she ate up information about Redlight like her life depended on it — but bringing Mercer to the van and back to the temple sounded like a very, _very_ bad idea. Even _if_ Mercer just helped him take out a Templar and seemed to be working against Abstergo.

At the very least, Desmond could make out the draw of Mercer’s eyebrows being pushed downward into a glower. He probably knew exactly why Desmond was wary. Mercer stiffly replied, “You think that I can’t just kill you for it? I normally would’ve done so by now.”

Desmond went rigid at Mercer’s underhand threat. “And why haven’t you yet?” He questioned, eyes narrowing to watch for any sudden movements on the other’s part. Again, Mercer was a golden illumination in the dark, neither red nor blue. Desmond couldn’t even begin to guess if Mercer was an enemy or not.

Mercer only raised an eyebrow at that. “Do you want me to?”

Avoiding the question. God, when could just _one_ mission go like Desmond planned for once in his life?

Exhaling a heavy breath in exasperation, Desmond tossed his hands in the air. “Fine! You can come. Don’t get upset when you get some hostility from my... friends, though.”

Before Desmond could take another step towards the hallway door, a hand on his shoulder was yanking him the opposite way, depositing him in the cold December air. He hardly registered that he needed to dig his heels into the ground fast enough before the bite of the icy wind was on him once again, though Desmond had learned to tolerate the cold weather enough that he barely paid it mind.

“The hell are you doing?” Desmond barked out, rounding on Mercer the moment his shoulder was released.

“I can hear people ambling in the lower levels, and from their gait, they’re not infected,” Mercer rattled off, staring at the ground with a mute expression. He then turned a critical eye on Desmond and held out an arm. “Tell me where we’re going. I’ll just take us there over the rooftops.”

And Desmond certainly did _not_ want another rehash of ten minutes ago. A Leap of Faith and scaling high-rise buildings was one thing when _he_ was the one in control. Letting Mercer carry him across multiple buildings like he was Spiderman, or any superhero in general, was another matter entirely.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Desmond shot a glance to the lone backpack he had left on the roof only minutes before. “Absolutely not. If my team is still nearby despite losing contact with me, then they aren’t far. I can use my parachute to get to the street and go from there.”

Mercer only tilted his head, regarding Desmond with a blank expression as he pulled his own arm back to his side. “You would rather deal with walkers than have me carry you?”

Yes. Desmond would very much so rather that. But even he knew his plan was lackluster — the Templars would see him parachuting if they had the whole building surrounded. Which, knowing Abstergo, they probably did. He was lucky they had only sent one Templar to observe the scene first.

“Fine,” Desmond said, turning to Mercer and tossing out his own hand. How Mercer was going to hold him, Desmond didn’t want to think about yet. Shaun would have a field day if he saw the other hoisting him up in a bridal style hold. “They should be waiting five blocks east of here. Once we’re close enough, I’ll give better directions.”

Mercer stared at Desmond’s outstretched hand, seemingly embroiled in the same question Desmond had regarding positions. He eventually brought his eyes to Desmond’s own, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re taller than me, so holding you around the waist again is a bad idea. It was hard enough the first time I caught you. I’m going to have to hold you bridal style.”

Irony really was a bitch, Desmond duly noted.

A hand gripped Desmond’s wrist before he was unceremoniously yanked forward. He had enough mind not to yelp as his arm ached at the rough treatment. Instead, he stumbled over his feet for half a second before righting himself, finding himself closer to Mercer than he was comfortable with.

The expression Mercer wore conveyed a silent, “ _Well_?”

Huffing, Desmond twisted his wrist out of the other’s grip, taking the moment to sling his arm around Mercer’s neck and lift his left leg, waiting for Mercer’s movement. Mercer responded in time, wrapping one arm around Desmond’s back, under his backpack, before hoisting the assassin’s legs up as his other arm slid under Desmond’s knees.

Desmond’s left arm was left squashed between his side and Mercer’s chest, causing him to take a moment to wriggle it free as he moved his right hand to rest on his own chest, sitting the powersource loosely there in his grip. Hopefully, it wouldn’t go flying as they moved between buildings.

This close, Desmond was able to see Mercer’s face without the dark shadows of a hood covering the majority of it. He was pale, pallor betraying the idea that Mercer was a normal human; he held the coloring of a corpse. The only flush of coloring on the other’s face was under his eyes; a brush of red tint that Desmond would have written off as eyeshadow in a peculiar place if Mercer was anyone else.

Icy blue eyes flicked to Desmond’s own as his staring was noticed, and Desmond averted his gaze out of habit, glancing upwards towards Mercer’s hood, where he conveniently noted the curl of black hair peeking out.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Desmond started, preventing himself from wincing when Mercer’s grip tightened on the bicep of his right arm. “Curly hair, though? Not that.”

“I can, and will, drop you off the side of this building.”

Desmond shifted to leave the powersource nestled between his legs and stomach instead of his chest as he used his free hand to flippantly gesture. “You haven’t killed me yet and I have good reason to suspect you won’t, considering you avoided my question earlier.”

A frown tugged down the corners of Mercer’s mouth. However, Desmond was left without a reply as Mercer quickly pushed from the ground with minimal preparation, jarring the assassin to hurriedly hook a hand around the powersource as it jostled at the motion.

“Jesus christ, give me a warning next time!”

The rush of wind in Desmond’s ears was not nearly as jarring as with his original fall, and it almost seemed soothing in a controlled sense. Mercer’s transitions between landing and jumping were seamless, and Desmond hardly felt the impact each time Mercer collided with a rooftop. Was the other muting the force somehow? He certainly wasn’t making their landings light, judging by the fracturing of concrete Desmond saw every time Mercer paused long enough on a roof to direct his next jump.

They couldn’t have been through more than six buildings when Mercer spoke.

“You already know my name. What’s yours?”

Another building passed between their feet before Desmond graced the other with a response.

“Between those two complexes, there’s an alleyway,” Desmond made a vague indication to said buildings with the tilt of his head. “There should be a van. Land on the roof next to it and we’ll climb down to the van.”

Desmond ignored the feeling Mercer’s eyes on his own face, instead turning his own head to face the expanse of Manhattan’s Red Zone in front of him. The infected were much thinner here, as Shaun protested going much deeper into the zone, prefering to be closer to the safeline of the Yellow Zone. He was, however, perfectly comfortable in sending Desmond deeper into the infected streets of Manhattan. Hypocrite.

The final impact of Mercer’s feet slamming into the roof below was harsher than all of their other landings, briefly jolting Desmond, enough so that Mercer tightened his grip, curling the assassin further towards his chest for half a second.

“Sorry.” Desmond almost believed Mercer sounded abashed before he was released from the other’s hold, sliding to his feet seamlessly.

Ignoring the crunch of broken concrete underneath his feet, Desmond hustled to the edge of the roof, glancing downwards. There, nestled in the dark alley below, he could make out the reflection of light across the top of the van.

A sigh of relief left his mouth. Of course they didn’t abandon him — he was their only key to Connor’s memory, after all. But it was curious not even William had come to investigate the noise Mercer’s impact had made.

The burn of Mercer’s eyes was on Desmond’s back once again as his own eyes flitted around the side of the building as he stood upon, searching for an easy way down. A fire escape was attached further down the building — that would work.

Straightening back up, Desmond pivoted back around to met Mercer’s eyes, squaring his shoulders as he clenched the powersource in his hand.

“They won’t like you.”

Mercer only tilted his head, face swamped in shadows once again. “You said that earlier. I doubt they’ll pose a real threat.”

“Right, well.” Desmond took a step in the direction of the fire escape, watching as Mercer became swathed in gold as he activated Eagle Vision.

He wasn’t red. Neither was he blue. But he was _important_.

“My name is Desmond Miles.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally had the conversation between the assassins and Mercer in this chapter, but I cut it out to move to the next chapter. Also the ending of this was hastily written so I apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Hit me up on my Tumblr, Aziord, to inquire about the fic if you want. I'll babble about it to anyone willing.
> 
> Reviews fuel me.


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